Devil's Consort (37 page)

‘One does not haggle with God!’ Bernard observed, entirely unmoved. ‘I’ll not mediate. It was your advice that your husband acted upon when he invaded Champagne. It was wicked, evil advice, and yet you have no penitence, no contrition. You are responsible for His Majesty’s fall from God’s grace.and your advice came from the Devil.’

I shook my head, fighting against despair. He was not listening to me. ‘Why should my sister have to suffer when nothing she did was outside the law of man or God? She committed no sin.’

The Abbot all but spat the words at me. ‘You would discuss the fruits of adultery with me? You would excuse the sin committed by Vermandois and your sister?’ This was a disaster. ‘My only advice to you, lady—’ he sneered over the respectful address ‘—go home and stop meddling in affairs of state that are nothing to do with you!’

He turned his back on me and walked from the room, leaving me trembling with righteous anger at his intransigence and my own helplessness.

I was furious with him, but I was equally furious with myself. I had thought I could argue the rights of my case with him with calm, legal precision. What a miscalculation that had been. Through the night hours I mulled it over.

With dawn came no satisfaction, but a change of plan.

‘Go to Queen Adelaide,’ I instructed Agnes, ‘and borrow one of her gowns. And a veil.’ I gave very specific instructions.

Brows raised in curiosity, Adelaide herself came with the selected items. They rose even higher when she saw me clad in them. Meanwhile I requested another interview with the Abbot. And was granted one. Adelaide wished me well. I thanked her with dry appreciation.

In the same audience chamber, Abbot Bernard waited for me. I saw the tightening of the muscles in his jaw as I walked forward. I saw myself through his eyes. A petitioner in a state of abject penitence.

By God, I discovered a talent for deception that day.

Face cleansed of cosmetics, not one jewel except for a plain silver cross on my bosom, all my habitual sparkle doused under severe black damask, I approached the Abbot. I even wore a despised wimple and full veil,
neat as any nun, to hide the red hair Bernard considered to be a mark of the Devil. Adelaide’s plain gown was without ornament, no dagged edges, not a hint of fur. No fur slippers, no train, no long sleeves, nothing that I recalled from that notable sermon that could arouse his disfavour. Since Adelaide was shorter than I by a handspan, I had to wear an under-shift so that my ankles were hidden from unseemly view.

I found it hard not to laugh at my outrageous appearance. I was the source of the counsel of the Devil, was I? Eve with the apple of deceit? Not so. Here I was as discreet as the Holy Virgin herself. Or more like a widow who wouldn’t stand out in a field of autumn rooks.

Even Adelaide had managed a smile.

‘Well, my daughter.’ Dry and rusty, Barnard’s aged voice was almost astonished.

I sank to my knees. The seams around the bodice strained. I would make it hard for Abbot Bernard not to listen to me. I would make it impossible. I would play the role of penitent that even he could not withstand. And so I bent my head and covered my face with my hands, remembering how once in my childish defiance I had vowed never to bow my knee before this man. How immature I had been. What extremities are we driven to by necessity.

There was a little silence. Then: ‘God bless you, my daughter.’

To give him his due, Barnard acted with all Christian
charity. I heard the shuffle of his feet as he approached, felt his touch on my opaque veil. How I resented it! But I must humble myself. I bowed my head, my eyes on the hem of his robe.

‘I have seen the error of my ways, my lord Abbot. I have prayed through the night.’

‘Your confession does you credit, my daughter. Have you come to do penance for your outburst of yesterday?’

‘I have. I was in the wrong.’

‘Do you confess your malign influence over Vitry.’

I could not! I could not do it. ‘My words to my husband were perhaps not wise,’ I managed.

Bernard allowed it to go unchallenged. ‘Have you a request of me?’

I had to ask. And not about Aelith, who was suddenly not my priority. However much I shrank from it, I had to beg.

Seven years of marriage and only one dead child.

Even Aelith had borne Vermandois a child in sin, a son.

I cared little for Louis, even less for France. But I did care for Aquitaine. I must give my domains their own heir for the future. I needed a child.

I lifted my face to look at the Abbot and spoke, my voice raw with real grief.

‘My lord, I come to ask your aid. There is no one in France who can make his voice heard in the courts of His Holiness the Pope or beneath the arches of Heaven.
In God’s name, please help me.’ Tears flowed down my cheeks, and not all to do with artifice. ‘I have no one else to turn to.’

The tears flowed harder.

‘My child! Such emotion does not become you.’

‘But it does. It is a high matter of state.’ A catch in my voice. I sniffed delicately. ‘My life is empty and barren.’ I added an impassioned tone, as I had practised, and bowed my head again. ‘In seven years I have carried one child and not to term. That was six years ago. And since then no more—my woman’s courses have continued to flow.’ I could feel Bernard flinch at so intimate an observation but I held to my plan. ‘I beg of you, pray for me. The gift of motherhood is all I ask, as our Holy Virgin experienced. Intercede for me, my lord.’

My voice broke on the request. I risked a glance. Bernard’s face was strained with some severe emotion. Perhaps he would reject me after all, unable to consider relations between man and woman, much less pray for them. I covered my face with my hands and managed a good bout of weeping.

Bernard responded with a hint of panic. ‘My child. So much distress. I cannot deny you.’ It sounded as if the words were wrenched from him. ‘I will help you—but there are conditions. There are always conditions. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must promise to seek the things that make for
peace. You must not meddle in affairs of the kingdom but guide His Majesty into good relations with the Church. If you will agree to that, I will entreat the merciful Lord to grant you a child.’

I sniffed again. ‘I should tell you, my lord,’ I whispered, glancing up. ‘The King will not come to my bed. He does not do his duty by me. I am dutiful to him … but he will not. I cannot persuade him.’

Bernard’s features stiffened, his mouth disappeared into the thinnest of lines.

‘That is not a matter for you to discuss with me.’

‘How can God grant my prayer, or even yours, my lord, if Louis will not fulfil his role as my husband?’

‘This is disrespectful.’

‘But true. The Holy Virgin conceived knowing no man, but I cannot! His Majesty needs an heir. I think he will never achieve it. And that is not good for the kingdom. How can I not meddle in this, when it is within my female power to put it right? If only Louis will consent to honour his vows before God …’ It was the strongest argument I could wield. He must listen to me. Bernard was silent for so long I thought I had lost. ‘I thought I had wed a king,’ I murmured, ‘and found I had married a monk.’

Bernard sighed. Good or bad?

‘Stand up, my daughter.’

I did. My eyes were still on the begrimed hem of his robe.

‘I will take the burden onto my own shoulders,’ he
stated somberly, ‘as long as you agree to remain obedient and humble, as is the role of womankind in God’s eyes. Will you agree to that?’

How hard it was. I would be more and more a cipher, a voiceless shadow. ‘I will agree to that. If you will also agree to intercede for my beloved sister.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, lady.’

‘And in return my final foray into high politics,’ I replied, hiding my bitterness. ‘I will persuade the King to make terms with the Count of Champagne.’

For a long moment we looked at each other, saint and sinner.

‘I will beg the ear of His Holiness over the excommunication,’ Bernard agreed.

I took his offered hand, kissed his ring, controlling my creeping flesh at the touch of the scrawny fingers.

‘Are we in agreement, my lord?’

There was no warmth in his face but there was appreciation. ‘You are a clever woman. I think it was Aquitaine’s loss that you were not born a man.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ I dabbed at my cheeks with the edge of my sleeve. It was the nearest I would ever come to a compliment from him. I decided we understood each other very well at the end.

‘I will pray for you, Eleanor,’ Abbot Bernard said. ‘And I will speak with His Majesty.’

‘I am grateful.’

Demurely, meekly, I left.

* * *

Bernard was as good as his word. As was I. That same day, the Abbot arranged a meeting between the two protagonists and I did my part to encourage Louis to attend and adopt a spirit of compromise. Peace was made, a chilly one but nevertheless a peace, between Louis and Theobald of Champagne, Louis returning all the territory he had seized. Louis appeared content with the promise of heavenly glory in return for his magnanimity.

What passed between Bernard and Louis over more intimate matters was outside my knowledge, but Bernard’s prayers reached the ear of God. Louis came to my bed, presenting himself as if he had not been absent from it for more weeks than I could count. It resulted in as chilly—and brief—an affair as his accommodation with Count Theobald, but Louis, under orders from on high, maintained an erection long enough to achieve the object of both our desires in less time than it took to say a Pater Noster.

Some weeks later, returned to Paris, I could break the good news. Louis was full of joy, and spent the night prostrated in my chamber, arms spread before my
prie-dieu
in grateful thanks.

‘You have given me a child, an heir.’ He kissed both my cheeks.

‘Thank God!’ I replied, heart-felt, and prayed that it would be so.

The child grew within me to full term, as the court prepared to celebrate and rejoice. It was a strong and
healthy baby, arriving without much fuss and a level of pain that was not beyond my tolerance—but a girl. I named her Marie in honour of the Queen of Heaven.

Louis kissed her forehead tenderly, astonished, so it seemed to me, that this was his child, rather than disappointed that I had not managed to produce the much-desired son. Clasping at the air with tiny hands, she was a pretty, undemanding child, very much Louis’s daughter, her hair fair like his, her eyes light and intensely blue. I saw nothing of me in her as I handed her over to her wet-nurse.

I regretted my lack of emotion. All I felt was intense weariness.

One day, unless I carried a son, Marie would rule Aquitaine. Never France. The Salic law made certain that no woman ever wore the crown of France in her own right, but my daughter would be Duchess of Aquitaine and much sought after as a bride, as I had been. Silently I wished her well of it.

As for Louis, he still needed a son as much as he had ever done, yet showed no inclination to repeat Bernard’s instructions to achieve it. He had mastered the fine art of evasion.

Sweet Virgin!

I rose from my empty bed and stripped off my shift to stand naked in the hard early morning light. My hands told me what my looking glass was too small to reflect. My flesh was firm, my waist once again restored, my belly flat with barely a trace of silvered lines.
My breasts were fuller—no bad thing, I decided. I was still youthful, still as beautiful as the April Queen. Still the object of desire to a man. My unbound hair fell like silk over shoulders and breast, enough to entice any man with red blood in his veins. I was as beautiful as I had ever been.

But as I shrugged into a chamber robe, I finally had to accept my lot. Perpetual failure destroyed all hope. Louis would remain obdurate in his need to seek salvation and I would always come a poor second. I would pray no more for his attentions. Loyalty and respect could be throttled to death for want of sustenance. Once I would have stalked him, determined to allow him no peace until he satisfied me. I stalked him no more. In my heart my marriage to Louis was at an end.

I received a letter from Aelith.

I could not read of such happiness and fulfilment, all that I lacked. I threw the parchment into the fire.

I
WENT
to Poitiers. In the autumn of 1145, when the days were still long enough and mellow with the lingering heart of the summer, the warmth of the south, of my own lands, beckoned. I left Marie with her nurses and travelled alone, with Louis’s blessing. I doubt he noticed my absence. I set my course for Poitou, conscious of nothing but the years passing. I was twenty-three years old and had abandoned any hope of so basic and thrilling an emotion as lust. How would I recognise it? How could I know the blast of desire when I had never experienced it? I would go to my grave without my body being stirred by a man. Take a lover, Agnes still advised, but I would not. Love, I decided, was all a deceit, a crafty trick of the troubadours to warm a woman’s heart and loins with longing for the unattainable, and so win valuable patronage for themselves.

‘Love does not exist,’ I bleakly informed Aelith,
who met me on my journey and continued with me to Poitiers. ‘Physical desire is not worthy of a woman of intellect.’

She was a grown woman now, confident, fine drawn with the exigencies of the past months but gleaming with contentment. Dismounting in the road, I hugged her, joyful at being reunited with her. I think my emotions were decidedly unsteady, although that may have been a poor excuse for what I did. The choice I made that was far from good sense.

‘Ridiculous!’ Aelith laughed.

‘How so?’ I remounted. My emptiness was not the subject for laughter.

‘Did I give up everything, even my immortal soul, for a warm friendship with Raoul?’ The curl of her lip said it all.